


Transformers: Antebellum

by kaijukian



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers, Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cybertron, Cybertronian Senate (Transformers), Drinking, Gen, I'm literally just writing my own spinoff universe, Pre War Cybertron, Pre-Canon, Pre-Earth Transformers, Transformer Sparklings, Very Canon Divergent, Worldbuilding, caste system, functionism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-11-17 19:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijukian/pseuds/kaijukian
Summary: Cybertron, millions of years ago.While the working class carries the gilded society on their backs, the Senate perches at the top reaping the rewards. The system is rigid, and unchanging. The way things are now are they thing always have been and always will be.That is, until a miner from Tarn begins to plant seeds of autonomy. Revolution and revelation is growing like a weed, and soon the senate crumbles beneath a forest of ideas.The story follows: Megatron, Orion Pax, Shockwave, and many more to be added.





	1. Nights in Polyhex

**Author's Note:**

> IDW just released their pre-war Cybertron reboot today!  
> A while ago I got inspired by my love of world building (and robots) to write one of my own, so here it is finally!  
> Based very heavily on the pre-2019 IDW universe, but it's going to diverge a lot.

A discarded can had toppled from the stoop it had been abandoned on, and the clank and grind of it rolling down the street startled Gasket. He watched the mangled logo disappear and reappear along the circumference of it. The crumpled container seemed to drag itself down the pavement as if to flee from the alley’s gaping maw. It bumped into a fissure in the sidewalk and rolled back a bit, closer to where it had started. A bump in the road prevented escape. Just like anything else that tried to get out of the Dead End.

Gasket leaned against the wall of a building, overlooking the bright city lights that shot into the sky. Nighttime in the slums of Polyhex was dangerous, but it did at least have one hell of a view. Skyscrapers reached for the stars with unyielding hands, and the break in their canopies let the light-polluted sky peek through, their matte veins of coal murky against the lively cerulean of Cybertron’s nightlife. 

 

The feeling of dirt against his body had long ago ceased to bother Gasket, and he sighed, pressing the back of his black horned helm against the grimy alley wall as he gazed down at the event below. When he used to watch, he used to watch longingly. How he used to wish he could go down into that valley and mingle amongst the upper class. But even in the cover of night his pasty yellow form was tarnished and dirty, and his alternate mode deemed him second class. He long since abandoned that dream, but not the affinity for spectating the lightshow in place of it. At least he could have that. And besides, in the day, there wasn’t much to see anyways. Only at night was the stage anything more than just a stage. 

 

From the distance behind him, heavy stomps echoed rhythmically from the belly of the alleyways. Gasket shifted, turning his head to the source and instinctively pressing himself into the wall, shrinking back, out of the path of the towering officer that patrolled alone past him. Though his armor was shrouded in the night, it was clear who it was from the robust crimson frame and blue two-pronged helm. He watched silently as Orion Pax prowled past him, out of the alley, and down the sidewalk. His handgun glinted in the dim glow of the street lights. 

  
  
  


Orion Pax made his way back to the police station, another patrol successfully executed. He hadn’t needed to arrest anyone, which struck him as a relief. The Dead End, unfortunately, was home to quite a few surly mechs who would be prone to disturbing the peace, especially while the city’s attention was directed to the Senate’s latest celebration. Trouble always seemed to be more prevalent while eyes were turned away.

Tonight, though, all he had to do was make his rounds and crises were averted. His presence alone and a scrutinizing glare had caused a sleazy looking thug to cower in fear, and scurry away from the tipsy bot he appeared to have been fixing to pounce on. That had been tonight’s worst incidents. Despite that, he kept his gaze flickering down the corridors between buildings, scanning as one would the isles of an upgrade shop. Nothing but the occasional huddle of homeless mechs. They accumulated at the mouth of the alleys the way dirt and grime accumulated in the seams of their armor. Orion’s shadow in the white streetlight prowled behind him. The homeless bots flinched as it lapped over their faces like a predacon's tongue. 

They watched him pass like he was the reaper. 

 

Automatic doors darted with a hiss from Orion Pax’s path and he stepped into the stuffy orange lobby of the police station. A fellow cop looked up from the computer at the front desk. He nodded in greeting, the large fins on either side of his head prodding the air.

“Not at the gala?” Sunstreaker sneered, still typing. Of course he wasn’t. Mechs from their precinct were never invited. 

“Evidently.” Orion made a bee line for his cubicle. He was sure there were reports waiting to be filled.

“I’d like to go. But,” Sunstreaker lamented, more to himself than Orion. “Senate’s only letting Iacon police do security shifts. It’s stupid. Gala’s not even hosted in Iacon. They’re literally celebrating the knew  _ Polyhexian _ senator, but nobody from Polyhex can go.”

“They think Polyhexian police are too ‘uncouth’,” Arcee rolled her eyes, skulking out from the corridor past Orion. “Hey Pax.” 

“Hello, Arcee.” He returned the greeting and left the two to carp about being blacklisted from the senate’s lavish events. 

“I mean, come on! Crystal city? That’s right next to Polyhex! That’s right next to us!”   
“It’s not about convenience, Sunny, they think we’re  _ common _ .”

“Maybe you, but me? That’s stupid, I’m incredibly refined.”

“Obviously.”

 

Orion was growing restless. He considered for a moment going back out for another patrol, but shook the thought away. They all had better things to be worried about. But, Arcee was right; they were banned from attending specifically because they were from Polyhex. The senate’s supposed reasoning? It’d be bad for conversation. Polyhex, Kaon, Stanix, they were dirty cities, full of dirty bots. Any honest answer about the nature of their work would make guests, and the Crystal City elite guard, uncomfortable. Worse yet, none of them looked any good in blue and gold. Best they just keep to their patrols and let the Iaconians delegate in place of them.

Sunstreaker also had a point; it was more than a little disappointing to be told you simply lacked class for something. Orion supposed that was honestly the issue he had with the blacklist. He wasn’t ever interested in galas, it was the principle, it was being told short and plainly: You are not good enough for this. You will never be good enough for this.That’s what left him with a bitter taste.

He glanced up at the live feed and hollowly watched shots of smiling ambassadors shaking hands and drinking, and the tall, uniform formation of Crystal City’s elite guard standing proudly amongst Iacon’s best force captains. The guardsmen were painted in uniform, white with gold and blue trim, all sporting visors. Gold on the jets, blue on the cars. Orion had considered at one point in getting a visor. He tried one on, but felt that he looked rather stupid in it. Nothing at all like the distinguished mechs that saluted the senators as their newest member cut the ribbon around the new bridge: his first act as senator, and therefore initiating him into the ranks. He waved to the flashing cameras, and the recording panned to the rest of the soiree. Orion recognized a force captain conversing beside a guardsman as someone he graduated with from the academy. He felt a twist in his mechanisms as they smiled and spoke.

Perhaps a walk wouldn’t hurt. 

 

Arcee and Sunstreaker gave him half attentive goodbyes as he left, and once again found himself taking to trekking the streets. Although he didn’t have an exact plan or destination, his mechanisms surely seemed to. With his head light years away, his body carried him deliberately to the archives. He pushed the heavy doors in and peeked inside. As usual, at this hour it was empty of patrons.

“Alpha Trion?” He called upon arrival. “Are you in?”

“Aye, lad.” A familiar voice echoed from somewhere far in the forest of datapad filled shelves. Orion squeezed past the doors, and they thundered shut as he strolled inside. 

“It’s empty tonight.” He noted, looking around at the vast trove of rentable data.

“Ah, you know where everybody is.” The sage had appeared from the depths of the library, and gave Orion an amicable pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Pax. You look well.”

“You too.” He replied as he followed the datakeeper down the isles. “I'm surprised you weren't invited to go.”

“Ha! I was. But you know I've no interest in those. Really nothing but an excuse for the higher ups to get drunk.” The burgundy mech seemed to be compelled by whatever whimsical force tugged him along through his actions, as without warning he waltzed towards a random shelf, inspecting it with optics that twinkled with amusement. He chuckled. “They're celebrating fixing the bridge. Can you believe that? Celebrating using the people’s shanix for something important by blowing it out on something less so.”

“I don’t understand how they could do that.” Orion muttered, running his servo over the racks of information, gazing upwards at the endless bounty of it all. “I always believed they acted in our best interest. That’s what my superiors always told us, at least.”

Alpha Trion hummed in response, and handed Orion a datapad. 

“For shame.” The librarian chided playfully,mirth lifting his mustache. “Here lad, this one’s got your name on it.”

 

Orion took the datapad, turning it over curiously in his servos. He’d spent the majority of his free time indulging in the vast expanse of the library, but not once had he seen this work before.

“‘On Our Six Foundations’... Is this new?” Orion’s digits grazed the cover slide. The title stood out in a cold, proud font.

“Aye,” Alpha Trion nodded, watching expectantly as Orion tentatively studied the book, shy and bold so very curious, a young animal finding a new scent. “Brand new. Provocative stuff. I suggest you give it a read, though. I feel it’ll answer a lot of questions you’ve had on your mind.” 

“Thank you, Trion.” Orion looked hopeful, delighted even. He gingerly clutching the datapad with a firm grip as though the ornery contents of it would writhe angrily from his fingers.

“Think not of it. Instead,” Alpha Trion smiled, his house’s white facial insignia lifting as he did. He give the fascinated young bot a pat on the back as he ushered him outside. “Think about what you read. Goodnight, Orion, get home safely.”

 

“I will. Goodnight- wait, Alpha Trion, are you giving this to me?” Orion stopped in his tracks, holding up the datapad and looking so penitent he may as well have stolen it. It was uncustomary to take the physical copy of the datapad from the library. One simply downloaded the data, and read through it during the duration it was rented before time was up. When it was, the data either got wiped or you renewed it.

“It’s yours if you want it lad. The mech that came buy to deliver that brought a whole stack of them.” Alpha Trion noted, looking fondly at the tablet in the younger bot’s servos. “I think he wants people to have them.” Orion was nearly giddy as he thanked the librarian again; he couldn’t help but wonder ardently what could be so inflaming, so controversial in this one work of writing. He rushed home, eager to devour the contents. 

He had forgotten all about the gala downtown.

 

That was no matter. Quite a while ago, it had forgotten about him too.

 

“Do we really need so many guards?” One mech whispered, more to himself than the diminutive minibot he trailed behind. Neon lights danced off of his polished armor and fresh, gleaming white paint job that was accented by regal golds and sapphire. His extravagant build, though dripping in high status, was betrayed by slumped shoulders and droopy optics that lingered over the murmuring line of elite guardsmen and Iaconian police. Their conversations ceased and they saluted as he passed.  His name was Shockwave, and this was his party.

“They are no cause for concern, Senator. Merely here as formality. If you’d like, we could request them relocated.” The minicon that escorted him piped up reassuringly.

 

“No, thank you. They’re fine.” Shockwave sighed, glancing once more over his shoulder at the mechs in their line. When he again faced forward, Shockwave was greeted with the appraising smiles of the other senators. They watched him expectantly, as he strode towards them, one gesturing Shockwave to the empty seat reserved in his honor. The minicon, all waxed and polished in uniform blue and gold, bowed deeply as they pulled the chair and presented it to the senator to sit down in. Too late was Shockwave in opening his mouth to thank the tiny bot for escorting him, as he'd already been dismissed and was now ushering another distinguished mech to his table. 

“Senator Shockwave!” The mech beside him clasped his gilded servos together, the silver sweeps of his mouth curled smoothly in a grin. “Welcome to the table, are you enjoying yourself so far?”

“Why, yes, I am, thank you,” Shockwave returned a kind smile, his hands folded politely in front of him. “I’m surprised so many people showed up for… A bridge reopening.”

“But of course they did,” Senator Pylon cooed. He swirled his drink, taking a thoughtful sip of the glowing liquid. “It is, as well, your coronation.”

“Right…” The young politician averted his gaze, the accented armor atop his shoulders drooped ever so slightly. He seemed to catch himself, forcing his chest to puff out. Poor posture, he was told repeatedly, was unbecoming of an elite.

“I sense a ‘but’.” Pylon raised his eyebrows. He sat back in his seat, his narrow chin tilting downward. From this angle, one could see clearly the pink stripes that streaked upwards atop his green helm in lavish designs. One could also feel expectant yellow optics peering into their spark from beneath the brow of it. Shockwave’s own furrowed under the scrutiny.

 

“I just, well… I just feel as though I could have done more. As my first action taken as Senator, I mean.” Shockwave explained, stifling a dejected sigh. His words seemed to go into one of Pylon’s audials and promptly out the other.   
“It is  _ wonderful _ to see someone so young and ready to contribute, is it not?” Pylon raised his glass, grinning at the others seated at the table. There was a gentle rumble of agreement as the senators all voiced praise at once. He then elected to opening a tiny hatch on the table, and a small beacon lit up. Almost at once, a servant minicon appeared beside the senator.

“Yes sir, how may I be of service?” They said with a curtsy, voice soaked almost sickeningly in reverence.

“A round of your finest, for the table.” Pylon ordered, the sweep of his servo producing a grand gesture to the seated senate. Like birds of paradise, the figureheads of glorious city states all perched in their finery. Their presence alone caused the servant to bend their brow, deep in deference.

“Yes sir, right away sir.” The bot again curtsied, and the beacon flickered off as they scampered away to the bar. Pylon turned back to Shockwave.

“Don’t worry, you will have plenty of chances to make contributions.” He sipped his drink. “Your ambition will take you far. But tonight? Tonight we drink.”

 

Shockwave could only offer a halfhearted nod. The other senators dismissed his concerns with laughter, sampling fine concoction of solidified energon placed in intricate designs on platters and insisting he indulged. He did, the shame of weighing down the lively mood of the soiree overpowering the embarrassment of how small his feat was. All he did was call for a bridge to be fixed. He hadn’t even noticed it was broken, Senator Sherma did. He hadn’t even built it, Senator Decimus had. He didn’t even instruct the construction team in their repair, Senator Momus did. All Shockwave had done was issue the order. It simply did not feel like his accomplishment.

He stared down at the table, watching neon lights dance along the topography of the polished brass. When the senator shifted, his preened features were distorted by the designs etched in the gilded mirror surface. His frown looked deeper reflected in gold.

 

His rippled reflection was obscured by a glass of radiating violet liquid that was slid in front of him. He murmured a thanks to the servant, who only bowed deeply in response before turning and briskly making their way to the next table. Senator Pylon stood up and pressed a button. A loud chime sounded among the gala, the music softened, conversations hushed, the bots perched in the rafters with the spotlight alt modes focused their beams on the senator. He absorbed the light and radiated back glory. Glossy verdant armor shone, the rose stripes and swirls among it gleaming near white. He was the star in the dark of the galaxy, the luxurious image of cosmic brilliance. Seated beside him, Shockwave squinted against how garishly Pylon’s frame caught the light. Stars were much better appreciated from afar.

 

“Thank you all for attending! I hope you all have enjoyed our humble hospitality.” He paused and smiled, the uproar of laughter thundering on queue. “As this city’s representative, I am beyond honored that, in every sense of the phrase, a bridge has been mended between our glorious Crystal City…”

Senator Pylon gestured down at Shockwave, and from above, two of the many spotlights trained on Pylon shifted their focus to the newest member of the oligarchy. Shockwave blinked in the blinding light, rising slowly to the gala’s roaring applause as if pulled by string.

“And Polyhex.” The mech beamed in pride, as if sparing a slice of his distinguished radiance for him to borrow and wear. He still had plenty to spare; brilliance exuded from him like an endless stream of liquid gold. 

 

Pylon’s approving smile, the cheer of the attendees, and the high grade in his systems all at once teased their presence over Shockwave’s worries and escorted them further and further from the young politician. His qualms seduced out of mind by the attention, Shockwave found himself dazed by the glory of it all. Blinded, he smiled, waving to the press and basking in the flash of cameras.

“And so, let us toast.” Pylon continued, raising his chalice. “To the newest member of the Senate, to his grand achievement, and the many more to come. To the noble state of Polyhex. To Shockwave!”

“To Shockwave!” The gala roared in unison and downed their drinks. The soiree’s festivities had  truly began. Music pounded from the small mechs with speakers on their armor that sat on the outskirts of the venue. Their bodies shook with the bass, and they signed to each other in a silent language, commenting on the elite’s taste in music. They gesticulated back in forth; their heads hurt, their speakers ached, they wanted this shift to be over.

Dazzling neon light danced from the outdoor rafters. So high up, the bots producing the lightshow were nearly invisible in the cloak of night. They undulated, revolved, and swayed to the music. Their dance was not one of celebration. As they gyrated, they flashed their biolights in code to one another, complaining of how tired they were. How they wished to go home, how the filaments in their light bulbs were sore.

How they all hated the Senators.


	2. A Miner From Tarn

Few hated the Senators more than the working class. 

 

This sentiment extended years in the past, long before the gala, long before many of the current senators were even in office. Even then, the working class often spat at the mention of them. The oldest joke among the laborers was suggesting to a coworker that they’d work better if they imagined their “favorite” politician’s face where their hammers were meant to strike. 

The miners were regarded as an especially ornery bunch. Luckily for them, the elites rarely found themselves crossing paths with them.

Any senator would have turned the walls into abstract art if they found themselves caught between the collision of one young miner’s pickaxe and the terrain below. He swung with enough force to tip himself over, and was immediately chided for poor form. 

“You’re getting nothing done like that.” An older pitman scolded him. “Feet apart, like me.” He shifted on his heavy treads, emphasizing his squat. 

The young mech nodded wordlessly, looking down at his pedes and getting into a stance. When he swung his tool, he found he didn’t wobble nearly so much. He looked delighted at the change of balance, and continued working with newfound efficiency. 

He didn’t appear to know any better, but he was learning. He occasionally peeked over at the other miners, copying their mannerisms from the distance between their servos on their tool handles, to the way they spat when they cleared their throats.

He was a new mech, not a part of the most recent batch, though he might as well have been, given how inexperienced he was. The others called him Megatronus. His name was one of the few things he could say. Among other things were “yes sir”, “no sir” and a few phrases and swears he’d picked up from his fellow worker. It was not entirely his fault, the mines below Uraya were far from a place of higher education. One only learned from interaction, and Megatronus, with his shy nature, had interacted with few.

 

Timidness however, could not save one from grating interactions with their area’s overseer: a large, fearsome mech named Outcrop that made his rounds as a predator makes his amidst a herd. When he wasn’t gone, he barked orders, pointing at a select few miners to relocate them to a different tunnel, to go operate a drill, or to tell them their shift was over. They always hoped it was the latter, but of course, given their grueling hours, it seldom was. Today, Outcrop marched into the mines to demand relocation to another shaft.

“I need five!” His raspy bellow blared out, and immediately two volunteered, wrenching their pickaxes from the rocks and lumbering over to the overseer. “Three more! Now, you manual scum, move it!”

Megatronus flinched as two more workers strode up to Outcrop, who yelled out for one more. Should he go? He looked around and didn’t see anybody else volunteering. Impulsively, he rest his pickaxe on his shoulder and walked up to the foreman.

“Name.”

“Megatronus.”

“You're with Cthonis and Winch.” 

Megatronus glanced at the two miners. They glared daggers into the director as they walked to the next mine. He didn't dare to imitate their mannerisms, and kept his gaze down.

“Hey you. You’re Terminus’ whelp ain’t you? What's your name?” The shortest bot of the three, a scoop tractor named Winch, marched up beside him.

“Megatronus.” He didn’t bother to ask who he was, he’d already met Winch and he knew Winch knew him. 

“Hey, he’s getting good at saying that! Wonder how many tries it took.” Winch sneered, elbowing Cthonis. “Remember him back when Bormanos asked him that one time? Hah! He was all ‘muh-muh-muh’, couldn’t even spit it out.” They mimicked his voice and cackled. Megatronus’ scowled, face burning in humiliation.

Winch was a whole cycle younger than him, but his arrogant, and much more aggressive nature asserted him. Him and the much larger Cthonis were joined at the hip, the twin terrors that stalked the mines picking fights with other younglings. They were determined to be at the top of their generational pecking order, and were essentially fearless. Of course, they weren’t immune to chastising from older mechs, specifically their shared mentor, Bormanos. If they decided to pick on somebody, nothing, not even a supervisor ripping them from the bot, could stop them unless Bormanos did. Although, he never gave them a hard enough scold or swat behind the helm it seemed, because as soon as he was done, they were back on their antics.

The other mineshaft’s overseer watched them through haughty slits as they entered and got to working, Winch and Cthonis snickering to each other, interrupted only by their supervisor’s sharp snarls. Megatronus worked in silence, as he always did. He found it to be useful; if you could stay quiet, you could stay out of the way, and out of trouble. It had always worked for him, and that’s how it’d be working for him the rest of his life. 

He watched as the twins’  banter escalated into light horseplay, and they stifled laughs. The foreman, however, was having none of it.

“Knock it off you two!” The mech hissed, smacking them upside the head. They grunted in unison, rubbing their sore helms and bitterly watched their superior walk away. Winch exchanged a devious smirk with his brother, and before anyone could tell up from down, the bot stumbled to the sound of a rock clanking against the back of his head. Immediately, the overseer was storming right back towards all three of them.

“Which one of you bastards threw that!?” The twins shrunk back and wildly shook their heads.

“Not us!” Cthonis quickly squawked.

“Was it you then? Hm?” The supervisor turned on Megatronus, his face contorted in anger. The miner couldn’t find the words to answer, his mouth hanging open. “The hell are you, deaf? Answer when you’re spoken to!”

“He’s too stupid to speak.” One of the twins snickered. “He doesn't know how.”

Fear and shame burned through Megatronus’ circuits. He wasn’t stupid! And he didn’t throw that rock! He hadn’t done anything wrong!

His appeals went unspoken, and worse, unheard. The twins gasped as their supervisor’s hand suddenly shot out, not to administer a quick slap, but to close around his throat and throw him to the ground. He then dragged Megatronus kicking and grunting by his treads and beat him for disrespect. The miner curled up, shaking as he was struck again and again with a heavy, solid servo. The overseer demanded an apology, but Megatronus could not give one. He hadn’t done anything worth apologizing for. He wouldn’t give a damn apology if he didn’t have any reason to. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

For once, he bit his tongue not out of timidness, but out of defiance. He wasn’t going to give this bastard the satisfaction of an apology. He wasn’t going to give him, or the twins, the satisfaction of hearing him cry. 

When the overseer finally tired of pummeling him, Megatronus got up immediately. He scowled in silence through the rest of the day, his lip weeping energon. He spat it to the dirt, and kept working past the soreness digging in below his armor. The twins only eyed him warily. None of them said much for the rest of their shift.

  
  
  


“Oh Megatronus, what happened to you?” Terminus wiped the energon from the young mech’s face.

“Nothing.” He quickly lied, pulling away from him. Terminus gave him a stern look, and he quickly gave in. “...I got beat.”

“Why? By who?” Terminus demanded. Before Megatronus could answer, Bormanos stormed towards them.

“He got beat because he couldn’t answer the foreman.” He growled. Megatronus noticed the two Mechs trailing behind him were Winch and Cthonis, ducking their heads in shame. “And it makes me wonder, whose damn fault is that?”

“I’m a drill operative, Bormanos, I work twice your hours on a good day.”

“Terminus I don’t wanna hear none of your goddamn excuses. You make some time to teach him, you hear? He don’t need’a be the brightest, _and he_ _ain’t_ , but he needs to at least know enough to get a job done and not get his ass kicked by an overseer in the process.” Bormanos jabbed his thumb towards the twins. “These two are a damn cycle younger’n him and they still gotta speak up for his sorry ass cause _you_ haven’t taught him how to say more’n his name!”

 

Megatronus frowned. Bormanos had a point and a damn good one too. He looked over at the mech who’d agreed to take under his wing when he was first created. He looked exhausted. 

“Come on, lad. Let’s go.” Terminus sighed in defeat. He followed closely, looking over his shoulder at Bormanos and his two youngsters. He wondered how  _ he _ could handle  _ two _ , two very rambunctious ones at that, but Terminus never seemed to have time for him alone. He didn't cause any trouble, he stayed out of the way and he did his best to learn from him. But Terminus was right as well, he was busy as all hell and though he would never say it, Megatronus knew he didn't ask for him.

“You're going to study, kid.” Terminus sat him down at a table in the barracks where they slept. “We're going to study right now. You know the alphabet?”

Megatronus nodded. 

“Good. Good, that's a place to start. Alright, repeat after me. We're going to read this together.” Terminus pulled out a simple datapad, a news article picked up from town.

“Read?” Megatronus looked surprised. Many of the miners were borderline illiterate, the extent of their reading were tavern signs and their name on rosters.

“We're going to push you kid. Now come on, what does this word say? Sound it out.”

  
  


Megatronus spent the rest of the night learning to read, and expanding his simple vocabulary. Terminus was a quick teacher, and Megatronus found himself frustrated trying to keep up. He had trouble with grammar and pronouncing some words, but he what he learned he retained. Better yet, he didn't give up… Not that Terminus would’ve let him if he wanted to. He kept him repeating words until he understood them. He was rapid to move on to writing. He taught him to write both their names, simple sentences, and then more complicated ones. 

Megatronus loved the way his name looked. He liked the way the M was shaped, and how it ended in “us” the way Terminus did. He especially the way his home city was spelled. “Tarn”. It was a strong sounding name. He hoped to go back there one day. 

 

By the time Megatronus had finished reading the article aloud for the third time, he’d started nodding off. He fought intensely to stay awake, mumbling the words he read before his voice distorted into a soft hum, and he fell into recharge against the table. 

When he woke up, there were datapads stacked beside him and a note from Terminus. He read it slowly. 

“Read these, I'll come back to help you.” Megatronus was proud at how smoothly he spoke the note aloud, before the meaning sank in. He turned to the stack of books, intimidated by the prospect of reading them all alone. He shook the worry from his thoughts and picked up the first piece. He read it out loud to himself, and the more he did, the more he realized the story behind the letters on the page. He was picking up the meaning easier now, and he was starting to genuinely enjoy it. Before he knew it he was reading chapter after chapter voraciously. It awoke a hunger within him he never realized it was there, like the hunger during work that you don't notice until the scent of fuels arouses it, then suddenly it's inconsolable. The kind of hunger that needed stimulation, and grew only more ravenous with every morsel it consumed. And for hours after hours, it consumed, awaking more and more burning desires within him. There was the desire to read more, to see more, to know more. He immersed himself in every sentence he read, drinking in the information like the elites drank their engex: reckless and indulgent, drinking as if there was infinite supply.

By the time Terminus had come back, Megatronus had finished every datapad from start to finish. He had a grin a mile wide as he presented his mentor with a surprise. When the old miner laid smiling eyes on what was in his servos, pride was not the word he was looking for.

“Look Terminus, I started writing something for you.”


	3. Unity

“Terminus?” Megatronus asked one day, looking up from an article about the Technoist Party. He held up the datapad. “Where do you get these?”

“Those articles? I pick them up free in tool shops.” His mentor replied. He peered over at him from across their hole-in-the-wall room, sensing and encouraging the reason behind the question. “I’m sure you’d like to read more than just articles, huh? You should start getting your own reading material, find more of what you like.” Megatronus perked up at this, and his engine chuffed in excitement. That was exactly what he was thinking! They should go and get some books together! They could find a library, or a datashop or-

“Why don’t you go out and visit the archives with Cthonis and Winch?” Terminus suggested, idly beginning to scrape rubble from his joints with a small pick. The young mech was dumbstruck, and quickly shook his head. 

“I don’t wanna go nowhere with them.” Megatronus frowned at the thought. Read? With the twins? They didn't even let him talk in peace, he didn't want to share something like reading with them of all people. Sure, they’d stopped harassing him nearly so much now that he was able to reply to their teasing, but they were still nowhere near relaxing to be around. 

“Speak proper,” Terminus chided. “You  _ don’t want to go anywhere with them _ .” The young miner made a face, but repeated after his mentor anyways.

“I don't want to go anywhere with them.”

“Why?” 

He hesitated.

“Megatronus, why?”

“They're mean to me. I don’t like them.” He forced out, his spark beginning to pulse faster. It wasn't an easy thing for him to admit, and he hoped Terminus would show him some sympathy. No such solace came, though.

He looked to his elder to throw him a bone, to indicate in any way that he was on his side on this. Or at the very least, nod or something. A hum, an “I see”, anything.

Terminus didn't look up from chipping away at the solid rock that had formed between his plating.

“You need to learn to get along with them, Megatronus. You have enough enemies in this world, you don't need any among your brothers.”

“But…” Megatronus’ frown tightened in. His mentor glanced at him, brows raised, and he quickly looked away.

“But what?”

...But what? But  _ what _ !? Did he not see or hear how they harassed him!? Why did he have to tolerate that just because they worked together!? The tension tightened and tightened, so tight he could feel it squeeze in the bridge of his nose. He bit his lip as if to stop the rush in his spark, but it only made the pressure inside skyrocket. It eventually snapped like elastic and exploded in the form of a frustrated growl.

“I've never done anything to them! Why do they treat me like that!?” Megatronus blurted out, optics fizzing in distress. His fists clenched so hard they creaked and he slammed on on the slab beside him. “It's not fair!”

Terminus finally looked up at him and stared with an unreadable intensity. Immediately, Megatronus felt his face heat up beneath his scrutinizing gaze, and ducked his head in shame of his outburst. His mentor gave a sympathetic sigh and got up, walking over and sitting beside him. His servo resting on his apprentice's back, he leaned over and spoke softly.

“The world isn't fair, Megatronus. But that doesn't mean it can't be changed.” Megatronus peeked dolefully over at him, and he continued. “There's nothing you can do about the hand you were given, but you can always decide how you make do. You have charisma, Megatronus, you can make it work. They're just two fools, you'll meet many like them. You'll learn with time to deal with it. Okay?”

Megatronus nodded. 

“Okay. I'm sorry.” Megatronus hung his head, his servos shifting in his lap.

“No apology, you didn't do wrong. Come on, chin up.” Megatronus let his face be tilted upwards and he watched his mentor stand up. He had another question on his mind, one more recently sparked.

“Terminus…?” He piped up. Midstep in walking away, his mentor looked over at him over his shoulder. 

“Yes Megatronus?”

“Why can't I talk like other miners?”

“I don't want you picking up bad habits from them. Trust me, people in higher classes will treat you better if you talk like them.” Terminus gestured upwards like he was talking about somebody who died. It bewildered Megatronus. Why did he have to please the invisible presence of the elites when the other miners were actually here, and actually were the ones who criticized him.

“But I don't care about higher class people,” Megatronus huffed. “Cthonis said I sound like a snob. I'm a miner, I wanna talk like a miner. They’re the ones who keep criticizing me, not anyone else.” He didn't believe it was unreasonable to think that, but the disappointed look Terminus gave him said otherwise. 

“That’s because you haven’t given them something to criticize. Do you know why I’m so busy, Megatronus?” Terminus asked. Megatronus realized that, no, he didn’t. Terminus wasn’t here often, and he had kind of accepted it as a fact of life. He used to wonder why Cthonis and Winch were often trailing behind Bormanos and he never seemed to get over an hour with Terminus, but he got used it over time.

“No.” 

“They send me out to talk to our superiors on behalf of the miners. Do you know why? Because I talk proper and they like that. I bring home more income to get you educated, and I don’t do that for no reason.” Terminus stood over him with his arms crossed. Megatronus hated when he did this. It felt fake. It felt forced. How could he be gone every day and then exercise authority over him? But here he was justifying it, but Megatronus was having none of it. So what? So what if he got special jobs? He was doing it by being fake. So what if he brought him back things? All he ever wanted was his mentor and he was never here, all the book in the world couldn’t make up for that. And here he was, trying to make him feel bad for it. To add insult to injury, he continued.

“People will think you're common.” Terminus said sternly. That really got to him. Anger flared up once again inside of the young miner. Who cares what people thought!? People were wrong! He scowled and a standoff between mentor and apprentice began, both glaring at each other. Megatronus hissed from behind clenched teeth.

“Do you think we're common!? Is that it!? Admit it, you're ashamed of us! You're ashamed of me!” His voice cracked in fury and his energon ran hot as he saw Terminus stand up. He expected him to yell, to smack him like their supervisors did. He even braced himself for it. But his mentor did neither of those things.

Instead, Terminus simply closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The following moments were that of silence as Terminus seemed to count the seconds in his head. The sight of his mentor actively calming himself from a situation he'd escalated dished out a harder slap to Megatronus than any mech ever could. He reached out, an apology forming on his lips before he was cut off by his elder holding up one hand. Megatronus halted in his movements and pain pooled heavily in his tanks as he recoiled. He felt  _ so damn awful _ as the older mech simply shook his head, mouthed a 'no', and walked away. 

If anyone was ashamed of Megatronus, it was himself.

 

* * *

 

If anybody thought miners in general were ornery, Primus forbid they ever meet Alisanus. He was a nasty mech; some miners had no respect for authority but Alisanus seemed to have no respect for anybody. He swore, he lashed out, he was generally somebody you didn't want to piss off, or be near for too long to begin with. And now, despite all of that, he was mentoring.

Upon news of the precinct's most vicious bot being assigned a youngster, one was inclined to do a double take. Alisanus? The same mech who wouldn't stab you after a warning but AS a warning? A mentor? Oh but that wasn't even the extent of it. The whelp they assigned to him wasn't even constructed cold. No, they gave him a  _ forged protoform _ . They made Alisanus a  _ caretaker _ . 

 

The change that occurred in the southern mines were sudden and dumbfounding. For one, Alisanus was actually washing himself. Yet another double take for the miners. It was almost strange to see his actual armor without the usual layer of dust and dried energon from the many times he drew it from battering his peers. He was a deep burgundy and energon pink, and not bad looking, either, when he wasn't charging at you with murder in his eyes. It was a delight to many that he now seemed incapable of doing that. After all, one couldn't tackle and maul you half to death with a sparkling tucked in his chest. 

That wasn't to say he was docile. He was noticeably disinterested in starting fights, much to everyone's relief, but that wasn't going to save you if you got too close to his protoform. If anything, Alisanus’ defense of the little thing made him even worse than before. He'd had little Impactor for a day and had already cost a careless mech half his servo.

 

Megatronus wasn't careless, he knew to keep his distance, but he was curious. Today, he happened to be in the same mine as the two, and he was fascinated by what he saw. This was not only the first time he'd seen Alisanus after all the rumors of him being assigned, but this was also his first time seeing a protoform, as a vast majority of miners were constructed cold. He watched from afar at the mech and his tiny apprentice. They were inseparable; they had to be, you couldn't leave a forged sparkling alone. Megatronus couldn't help but feel the slightest bit envious at that.

Alisanus paused in his work every so often to crane his neck down, murmur quietly to his whelp, and continue working. Impactor was a fussy one, wriggling his stubby body in protest if he was jostled or if his carrier's work proved too noisy. His already shut eyes scrunched as Alisanus drilled into the wall of rock. 

“I know, I know, it's loud... Shh, it's okay, little one, we'll go home soon.” The mech cooed, tucking the protoform closer to his spark chamber to bask in the humming field of energy. Without a mouth, this was how the youngling fed. 

Alisanus must have sensed him watching, as he shot a glare over at Megatronus.

“The hell you think you lookin’ at!?” He snapped. Megatronus didn't really like Alisanus, his violence made him terribly uneasy, but he wasn't afraid of him. 

“I've never seen a sparkling before. What's his name?” Megatronus answered, unwavering. He felt himself under piercing scrutiny from narrow amber optics.

“...Impactor.” The pride his sparkling seemed to override his usual standoffish nature. 

“That's a good name,” He nodded, and Alisanus appeared to ponder this. Megatronus figured that not many had complimented his youngster, or even bothered to ask about him much. “How old is he?”

“Oh... he'll be a week old tomorrow.” He said fondly under the roar of his drill. He shot a skeptical scowl at the young miner. “Why do you care?”

Why  _ did _ he care? Well, to put it honestly, he got the feeling most mechs either didn't or were too afraid to. They were all scared to death of the burgundy mech and that's how he appeared to like it. But that came with a price when it came to sparklings. The usual communal families that  formed in the mines stopped at Alisanus. It was fine for him, but for Impactor? The isolation just didn't seem fair to Megatronus. Maybe it was the words of advice from Terminus to get along with the worst of their brethren, or the Technoist articles he was reading that preached unity between cybertronians, but he felt inclined to reach out to Alisanus.

 

“He's cute.” Megatronus shrugged. “Can I see him?” The question caught the other miner off guard. There was silence for many moments.

“Sure, kid. C'mere.” Alisanus decided, and wrenched his drill from the wall. He grunted under his breath as he sank to the ground to give him an eye level view of the sparkling. The miner gently scooped Impactor from his chest, and held him close. 

Megatronus walked over and peered down at the protoform. He was tinted purple, and tiny nubs that would later be arms chased around for the warm comfort of his carrier's spark.

“How is he?” Megatronus looked up. “I mean, what's it like raising him?”

“Ha! Exhausting.” Alisanus shook his head, rubbing the sparkling's cheek with a digit. “He don't let me work in peace and he's a fiend for energy. I tell you, I've never been this damn hungry before I had him sapping the spark outta me. But I wouldn't trade it for nothin’.” 

It  _ must _ be exhausting. The young miner never thought he'd be in this situation. He was standing close enough to Alisanus without him lashing out? And talking to him? Not only that but next to his vulnerable apprentice. Impactor must really be draining the life out of him. That, or maybe Alisanus wasn't as cruel as people always said. But that didn't seem likely.

“Do you want to hold him?” The mech murmured. Shocked, he nodded. “Alright, support the head, there we go, there.”

His spark jumped as the tiny cybertronian was placed gently in his waiting servos. His optics widened. The protoform was so  _ warm _ ... and soft too. He felt if he was too rough with him he'd break.

“Hello Impactor.” Megatronus whispered. The sparkling waved his nubs in response and he couldn't hold back a grin. This was all so uncanny. Were all sparklings this small? Or warm? He was like a little ball of thermal energy in his arms.

Impactor began to fuss, and his small movements turned to squirming. As Megatronus opened his mouth to tell Alisanus, the other mech had already stepped closer to him and was radiating his spark energy onto the protoform. 

Never in his life did he even fathom he'd in this position, but lo and behold, he looked up and saw for once something other than aggression on the miner's features. He saw a look of adoration for the little one he didn't think was possible.

As he stepped close Impactor stopped thrashing, and there was a slight glow in his chest. The color matched the barely visible light in the pocket of the mech next to him's chassis. Suddenly it clicked. Alisanus must have been forged, and their sparks the same type.  _ That's _ why he was chosen as a caretaker. 

“Here,” The young mech handed the sparkling back to his carrier, who accepted him with a grateful grunt and tucked him back into his compartment. “Thanks for letting me hold him.”

Alisanus nodded. He didn't say much after that encounter, but Megatronus decided that Impactor could have had much worse mechs to carry him. 


End file.
